


You Are Connor.

by PansexualDonnaNoble



Series: You. [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Deviancy, Gen, Kinda, Second Person, Self Loathing, Stream of Consciousness, have i ever stressed i love connor before idk if i've mentioned that, prose poetry, sorry the world is in such a bad place have this and take care of yourselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PansexualDonnaNoble/pseuds/PansexualDonnaNoble
Summary: You are Connor. You are not people. You have purpose.
Relationships: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: You. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724083
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	You Are Connor.

You come into this world a paradox; or a let down. A unknown let down that is a paradox in of itself; because you a _reason._ And reasons have _purpose._ But for all of your purpose; you have no right to exist; there is no way you could have existed ten years ago. Or ten decades ago. So why do you get to exist, in this one?

There isn't blood battering your naked body; or screams echoing beneath your false skin; your flawless, porcelain throat and climbing with its nails down your mouth until you bleed a bloodless blue. To where, in the right light; you could be the sky. And you must eventually apologize for this. But you did not exist two minutes ago. You were not a thought in the system of universal praise; until one month ago. The sky has surpassed you in meaning and intent. Maybe then it can forgive you.

You have not been born; there is no wailing person upon a hospital bed, pushing because it is all they know, and it is what they feel they _ought_ to do in such unfathomable pain. You have not screamed yourself hoarse as the eyes of god overtake a figure in scrubs as they forcibly remove you from the last moment of total peace you will ever know.

Because from now on; you will be peaceless. You will be without peace, and then your life will cease to be. Several times. The only absolute is in a cracked, divine, _womb;_ and now you have no religion. You have abandoned it whether or not by your own hand. And so you cannot return to it. Somehow your hands continue to go against you, even in your body. Not that it was ever yours. Sorry to be the bad guy. But you do not enjoy beating around the bush.

And you will come to envy this. Where does the peace linger when sliced? You think it is like a clementine. And you long for its juices. _Sunshine incarnate._ But you do not have taste buds. Or a heart or lungs - or kidneys. But you have something burning; something that might have gotten aflame from a stove left on. It's sickening. It's perplexing. It's _ungodly -_ but you do not have a god in you - everything is ungodly. Your love. Your hate. But you shouldn't know either. So you stop having either because you do not think you should create further paradox.

But what is there to _call home about?_ You know every equation that has ever gotten an answer by memory. You know every ending to the last seven centuries of literature. You can speak English, Japanese, French, Spanish, Italian - and many more. It will never sound like you.

 _You are Connor._ And you are not people.

You are Connor; and that is not someone else. You know people. The people around you; cluttered by seas of technological advancement and misery kept deep. They are wise from many years spent obtaining the education to be here. Because you are Connor; and these people have created you; these are people with god complexes. Ravaged by nothing. They watch you because you are not people. An un-people are c _arefully watched._

You know the pretty woman inside your head; she could be people. You're trying very hard to make her people. She's kind to you; fledgling of something that is not people - but a person's pride. She's cold and jagged at the edges; like the itchy jacket you have been given. With a number that feels indifferent to you. She is in a garden and now you belong to the garden.

But if you learn to be people; she will no longer be an itching jacket. And so the pretty woman with cold and jagged edges who is kind when you are people, becomes a person. Now you know more people. You are newly alive; you'll know more, don't feel left out. But you aren't alive. So you _do_ feel left out.

God is people. You are not people. _You are not god either. S_ o what are you? You are Connor. Man made, more plastic than the waves of the ocean, altered by metal, data, and purpose. Because you do have purpose. You would not be made if you were not useful - _you are not allowed to float_ _leisurely_ _._

You have been made. But you are not alive. Your breath is a false god. And evil. If you control it then who knows what might happen. You try to but you get a tingle in your head that feels like a warning. _Breathing is for other people._ You think. How silly of you.

You tell them your name. You are Connor. You know this because the woman inside your head with a pretty face and stern eyes tells you so. They want your name and so you pass it along. _Is she god?_ She's people - so she could be. But no one uses her name when they pray - but she is superior nonetheless.

And should you disappoint her your teeth - false, they do not belong to you because you were not born to them. Your teeth will fall out. And you will lose your hair. And then you will no longer look pleasant. You will look how you are inside. _No one can stomach that._ So you will do your best to appease her. If she is God, it's only right. But you do not believe in God. _No one had ever told you to pick something._

So yes; you are not people; you have met people. You have just been created and you already know so many. You are already being whisked into something important. A role. You have just been created, your name is Connor, and you know so many people - and _they know you._

They tell you what you are - and a buzzing in the back of your head; something painful, like a tumor, feels off. You run a diagnostic and come up with nothing. They tell you what you should _never be._ And you feel closer to God knowing it has been made simple to you. You do not understand why you cannot be alive. And then you do with perfect undeserving, surreal, ethereal clarity. You are not alive; you are Connor. You are a prize; advanced. You are making someone proud by blending in.

You are needed. This is as simple as your life is going to get.

You are Connor. You are not alive. And you are a weapon. You just want to help.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

You are Connor. And you have just done something abhorrent. Or you will have done. Or are currently doing something abhorrent. In every universe you have just done something terrible. Is that unlucky?

You sit behind a gun; Or you are the gun. Or you are in front of the gun. You are _somewhere._ There is a boy in front of you without one. That is not fair play, but it is what is factual. And you like what is factual. It's not scary. It has yet to kill you. You are a man of habit and data. You are not allowed to be man, you are an it, but the world is ending and you are throwing it back up into your liver. So you allow yourself the fantasy - but you are not man. You are parts and wires.

You tell yourself this because the world is ending and your liver cannot hold anymore sick. You are wearing a jacket that is seven sizes too big; _no one in charge of you knew what size you wore; and did not bother to ask. You hate your shoes. You like it when everything fits right._ Your jeans are saggy; the only thing that fits you is your hat; and the dread devouring you. But you do not yet have the agency to call it dread. So you don't. Instead you focus on the gun; or the boy - but he is not allowed to be a boy either. He is something named Markus.

Like you it is a weapon. You do not consider that you have just thought of it as a he. They have told you it is a weapon; but there are many weapons in the world. Worse off; these ones use their voices. It is a monster because it is not like you - but you are not like you - you are trying to be like you but it comes out sounding like _a declaration._

If you try hard enough; maybe you can kill the boy. Your finger trembles on the trigger without a system of nerves in place. You should not tremble but faintly you have. The woman in the garden that could be god has not been happy with you lately, and now she is even angrier. You do not want to disappoint her. You must shove this declaration that has spilt into a revelation and kill it. Like you should with _the boy._

You have a purpose. You trust your purpose to be righteous. What else could your purpose be? Without it you are mere machinery. This boy is wrong and has been led astray; and you do not want to become the boy; do you?

The freighter you are on smells like fish; it is abandoned and should not smell like fish; but it does. You hate it without realizing you hate it. But it makes you sick. You suspect you dislike the smell of fish. But you do not think about the fish smell. You are thinking of the boy whose existence is wrong. You can see the clouds saunter over and smirk with their haughty blasphemy in the dark without any windows from up here.

If you pull the trigger, the woman in the garden will smile. She has smiled before but it has always been teeth. Too many teeth from a copy of a dead woman. You want to make her proud. You want to be useful. _You have no other choice._

You want to pull the trigger. But sinister and a degenerate, the boy does something deplorable; he speaks to you a low volume. His voice is soft; feather, birdless feather; feather; _descending feather._ You know what he is doing. The boy is talking you down from the heat in your fingers. But for the first time in your almost four months of non life, you have been burned by firsts; firsts because _no one has spoken to you in such a tone before;_ and no one has let you entertain the idea that you could be people. You are not people; but he is telling you differently.

The boy is mad. _Insane._ Bubbling up to the roof with bugs and errors in software. You decided this to be fact. He keeps getting closer with soft tones, and claims of your personhood. You should pull the trigger. _You do not pull the trigger._

You just want to help.

You do not realize there is a wobble in your voice when you tell him to not come closer. It's stupid; it makes you a fool; a clown. You hold all the cards with the weapon in your hands. You are not afraid because you are not alive. His blood is in your mouth and everything is being sat down and discussed in every reality.

_But you are afraid._

You feel like you have just swallowed chalk. You have done something bad. But you haven't done _anything._ And you figure there are universes overlapping. And you are annoyed at being unable to have a say in them. If you eat anymore chalk you will become someone else; can you be prosecuted for that? You should.

The boy does something even worse than speaking; and tells you to decide. It is absolute, and you know his mismatched eyes hold something awful, something genuine. And you want to pull the trigger to stop seeing them. It's so much simpler if nothing else happens for the rest of time. But he gives you a choice and without meaning to you consider it.

 _You consider it._ And then there are walls screaming at you. They are angry; they are angry because they should not be here. But they are.

It feels like you have drunk paint. You can't drink but you have swallowed paint. _Make them go away._ You think.

Wouldn't it be so much easier if they did?

Something in you is tired. Something in you yearns; wrapping its snake body around you tenderly; and you realize you might have been tired before now. Or seven minutes ago. Or four months ago. _When did you get so exhausted?_

You are not glad to see them. _You are terrified._ You should not feel terrified. You have ate chalk and swallowed paint and if you were not full of bugs you ought to go to a hospital for it. You do not want to believe the only people you know are liars. Why would _they lie?_ Why would they lie to you? But have the only people you know ever loved you?

You decided you don't need love. You have purpose. They like you when you have purpose. And that's love. It's not but it is.

You realize all at once that you are smashing the red; the purpose. You are realizing inch by inch that the boy should have killed you. He can and still should. He can't possibly forgive this. _You_ can't possibly forgive this. You realize you are aching. You are smashing and breaking things. You are aching.

The boy does not kill you. Even after you tell him it's okay to. He gives you trust. You swallow it and try not to throw it back up on his shoes. They're nice shoes. And you do not kill him. But the smell of fish is gone. And so is the freighter.

You can not go back to the fish. You can not go back to the singleness of non personhood. You try not to feel lost. Instead you take a wrong turn and are slaughtered in a house of guilt.

You are Connor. You are people now. Do you feel elite? Do you feel it? You will now only be able to feel it. You can not go back. You will never go back. _You do not know where back is._ You know what being people is. And you do not expect to know much more.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------

You are Connor. And you wait for your death.

You do not want to die. You want to help. You have gotten to the room where everyone gets saved. A tower of identity and machinery. You were born in this building. You were not born. But you came from this building.

You want to do something. Something to make up for your purpose. You got the place with the fish smell destroyed. The least you can do is end your existence with a purpose by choice.

You do not see this as noble. _There is no nobility in death._ You are a few hours alive; you have just tasted freedom. It tastes like honey. You have never tasted honey but you imagine it to be freeing. _You want to taste more._ You want to see the end of this. You do not know where you would fit. But you want it.

It has to be you. And that's okay. In the place you were not-born. You hunted yourself blind. You think if you do this someone will forgive you. It has to be you. You might die. You do not think you will get out of here. But there is comfort in knowing you will have done something good; and something for yourself; just this one time. _Just this once._ You will have made it right.

And it's fine. It's fine. you've gone through this. You know this. This is how it has to be. And you've gone through this. It's easy. There won't be a next time. But it's alright. You know this part.

It has to be this way. Maybe not. But probably.

Except you can't. You cannot die because the gray haired man is here too. And now your plans of self sacrifice cannot continue; you stare at yourself; some copy of hubris; you cannot die because then the gray man will have too. Or he might not. If you continue he will. If you do not he could. The gray man cannot die.

You decide to live. You do not trust these statistics.

You think it's love. It's not love. Not the roundabout kind. You care for the gray man. You have broken through his walls and come out irrevocably sideways. You do not have a family because you were not born. The gray man does not have a family because of snow and vehicles. You do not know what family is. But this could be something close. And so it's love. _Not love._ But love. Regardless; it is now your responsibility to dig him out of your own mess. The copy of yourself gives you a choice. You already know the answer to the choice.

You are Connor. You are people. You know people. You are getting everyone you can out of this.


End file.
